A Not-So-Covert Affair
by Kryptaria
Summary: Everyone always underestimates Steve Rogers, including the Winter Soldier. Really, you'd think they know better by now. (A 5 1 themed story)
1. Chapter 1

Steve Rogers wasn't an idiot.

He wasn't naive. He wasn't an innocent.

But for some reason, everyone around him had this impression that he hadn't learned a damned thing about tactics, much less overall strategy, despite having been born at the end of one World War and having 'died' in the second one. And that was without even mentioning the neighborhood where he'd grown up.

After the whole S.H.I.E.L.D. Civil War, he moved. His DC address was no longer secret, but that wasn't the point. He wasn't worried about fans swarming his door; that happened every time he went out without sunglasses and a hat. It was the surveillance. The bugs and cameras. The nice girl down the hall who turned out to be a crack shot and, oh, by the way, she was also _Peggy's granddaughter_.

To hell with that.

Washington DC had never been home. He couldn't go back to _his_ Brooklyn, and New York was still being rebuilt. He finally let Natasha help him move some of his money into a numbered holding account, and he got one of Tony's lawyers to buy him a town home not too far from the old neighborhood, in Clinton Hill. The purchase was extravagant, but it wasn't as if Steve needed to save piles of money for the sake of having it. And having his own place, even one with shared walls on either side, would give him a measure of privacy.

Or so he thought. Because he hadn't lived there three days before he realized he was being tailed.

Being tailed was nothing new, but this was the first time he was free to act. Because this tail wasn't Fury's watchdog, sent to make sure Steve didn't react badly to some modern new experience. This wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. protecting an asset.

No. This was either someone trying to help him 'for his own good' — Natasha, maybe Clint — or an enemy.

He let the surveillance go apparently unnoticed for three days. On day four, he went out as usual, jogging generally south towards Prospect Park. Since moving here, he'd taken a different route every day — not for security, but simply because he was looking for the best views and least traffic. He kept his pace slow and easy so he wouldn't stand out any more than he already did, and because it gave him the excuse to pause at red lights and check reflections.

Twice, he thought he spotted the same person on his tail, hanging back almost out of sight. Male, he suspected, though that wasn't definite. Gray hoodie, no logo. Plain sweatpants. No visible weapons, but the hoodie could hide a lot underneath.

Time for Steve to take action. He didn't know the park very well, but he knew tactics. He knew how to lead an enemy to an ambush. He knew how to think on his feet. And today, he'd actually taken steps.

Casually, he left the sidewalks for the dirt trails that stretched between trees just starting to turn red and gold. At the heart of Prospect Park, the Ravine was a steep-sloped, overgrown wilderness preserve: the perfect trap. He turned for one of the bridges but diverted before crossing. The area was spiderwebbed with little dirt trails that wound around clusters of trees, any one of which would be ideal.

As he ran, he turned his head, listening for the sound of footfalls farther back on the trail. As soon as he heard a branch crack, he slapped his foot down and threw his weight to the side as if he'd tripped. His sneakers weren't the best for the sloping ground, but he wasn't scared of turning an ankle or twisting a knee — unintentionally. He went down in a forward roll that took him out of sight of the trail and hopefully looked painful, though he tucked and came to a stop with no damage.

This time, he heard nothing, but he caught sight of a shadow moving. He palmed the knife he never carried, a small, sharp blade that Natasha had given him almost two years ago, insisting that he should always have a knife on him. Today was the first time he'd ever taken her advice.

Senses alive, he could almost feel the shift in air pressure as someone stepped around the trees, trying to be silent. No "Hey, buddy, you okay?" or "Nasty fall. Need help?" or even the sound of mocking laughter.

_Enemy_, his battle-trained mind whispered.

He reached up as his enemy reached down. A sharp tug on a handful of the enemy's sweatshirt _didn't_ drop the guy, which was just wrong, because nobody was that strong. He compensated and got a foot under him as his enemy pulled him to his feet, and he used their combined momentum to drive his enemy back into the trees. His fist came up, just as he saw bright blue eyes and a short brown beard and locks of too-long hair.

The knife's point scraped at the underside of Bucky's jaw, and Steve gasped out, "I could have killed you!"

Bucky didn't answer — not verbally. Steve felt a sharp pinprick of pain at the center of his chest, just below his sternum. He looked down and saw a knife in Bucky's fist. The point had barely pierced Steve's shirt.

He hadn't struck — hadn't driven the knife up and under Steve's ribs, point searching for his heart — but adrenaline still washed through Steve's system. He lowered his own weapon and gave Bucky what was probably a mad grin as he asked, "Well?"

Bucky's expression was unreadable. He didn't need that damned mask he'd worn as the Winter Soldier. Steve, who'd grown up practically living in Bucky's skin, had no way to know what he was thinking. Not anymore. The distance between them could be measured in inches, but it felt as if he'd never be able to reach across and get back _his_ Bucky.

Then, Bucky lowered the knife.

Steve took a breath, though he had no idea what he was going to say. Bucky went tense, head jerking to the side, just as Steve heard footsteps rushing towards them in an even, fast cadence.

Another jogger on their trail, and the two of them were practically ready to kill one another.

He didn't think. Natasha's instructions flashed through his mind, and he crushed Bucky back against the tree. The knife skittered against Steve's hip, serrated edge catching on his sweatpants.

Before Bucky could say anything, Steve kissed him, draping himself against Bucky's familiar-yet-strange body, remembering how it felt to walk with a friendly arm thrown around each other's shoulders, to crouch huddled together over a campfire for warmth, to simply _be_ together.

And contrary to what Natasha thought, Steve really was no innocent. He just didn't like to brag.

Laughter rang out as the jogger passed behind Steve. Bucky's hands twitched against Steve's hips, but he didn't push Steve away. He permitted the kiss, and if he didn't melt into it, he certainly didn't try to fight free.

Later, Steve would try to figure out why. For now, he gave himself a few precious seconds to imagine that it really was Bucky, his best friend, and not the Winter Soldier who he was kissing. And it was almost as good as the kisses they'd shared in his imagination all those decades ago, when he never would've had the guts to try.

Finally, he stepped back, heart racing, and met Bucky's eyes. Deliberately, he crouched and sheathed the little knife back in his sock, under his sweatpants.

"We good here?"

Bucky said nothing. His lips were just barely parted, and a hint of color showed in his cheeks.

"Okay, then," Steve said. He wasn't about to stick a hand down his sweats to adjust or to even call attention to himself. Instead, he turned his back on the assassin and started running again, slowly enough that he wouldn't catch up with the other jogger, at least until he had his body under control again.


	2. Chapter 2

The modern world was full of coffee chains.

Steve guessed it was a good thing for people who traveled a lot. They could go to any city and get exactly the same drink they'd get back home. But every chain he tried had coffee that tasted like the over-roasted crap Morita used to cook up whenever they could get their hands on any beans, and while that stuff kept the chill off and would keep a dead man awake on watch, Steve didn't need to abuse his taste buds that way.

He found Outpost a week after he'd finally gotten settled in his new house, and it had become his go-to place, somewhere he could spend a quiet hour with his Kindle, catching up with seventy years of books. The girl behind the counter on the late morning shift — the _barista_, he corrected himself — was friendly and utterly uninterested in any man, even Captain America, which was just fine by him. When the weather was bad, he'd share a table with someone whose nose was buried in a laptop. Otherwise, he'd sit out back, where he had privacy. These days, the cold didn't really bother him.

It was half past eleven, around the time Steve was considering what to do about lunch, when he heard the back door creak open. He smiled and thumbed the corner of his Kindle, leaving a bookmark. "Perfect tim—"

He cut off when he saw Bucky walk out into the little garden, carrying a paper to-go cup in his right hand. His left was shoved in the pocket of a battered brown leather jacket. He'd shaved his beard, though he hadn't cut his hair. It looked good, but not _right_. Not like Bucky.

He walked over to Steve's table and sat down, uninvited, turning his chair so his back was to the coffee shop door. When he took his left hand out of his pocket, Steve saw blood on the metal grooves around his fingers.

He dropped a key on the tiled table.

"Post office, on Fulton," Bucky said, hiding his metal hand in his pocket again.

Steve finished the dregs of his coffee. "I'm retired," he said a little unsteadily. He wanted to ask if Bucky had killed someone — if Bucky was all right — but he didn't feel like he could.

"You can never retire."

Ominous words. Steve ignored the chill that swept through him and asked, "Are you watching me?"

Bucky didn't answer.

Steve sighed. "Look, I'm not —"

"Hey, guys!" called a cheerful voice from the doorway, and Bucky got right to his feet. It was the barista, sixty seconds later than Steve had expected her. "Need a refill?"

Steve stood up, not wanting Bucky to go. "No. Thanks, but — No," he said, hoping like hell that she'd go away.

Bucky turned back, and his expression was... _real_. He smiled his old cocky, confident grin, one corner of his mouth quirked higher than the other, and he looked at Steve with such warmth in his eyes that Steve's heart skipped a beat.

"No, you stay," Bucky said, putting down his cup so he could run his hand up over Steve's chest, under his open jacket. "I just came by to say hi. I have to go."

Steve opened his mouth to ask what Bucky was doing, and Bucky leaned in for a sweet, loving kiss. His tongue brushed over Steve's lower lip, and he sighed with absolute contentment. Distantly, Steve heard the coffee shop door close. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Bucky drew back and opened his eyes, pupils dark and huge. His hand trailed down Steve's body all the way to his waist before he picked up the coffee cup again.

"Don't forget the key," he said very softly.

Steve nodded, wondering what game Bucky was playing — and wondering if it really mattered.

Without another word, Bucky turned and went to the coffee shop door. Steve picked up the small key, cleared his throat, and called, "Buck?"

When Bucky looked back, the smile was still there. Maybe it was for the benefit of the customers inside, though not one of them was looking through the glass back door. Maybe it was for Steve.

"I like it better without the beard," he said thoughtlessly.

Bucky's head tilted slightly. His eyes bored into Steve.

"You," Steve corrected. "I mean — It's more like... you."

The only response he got was a quick, faint nod. Then Bucky turned and went into the coffee shop, leaving Steve to gather up the fragments of his wits.


	3. Chapter 3

Even in hiding, Steve Rogers couldn't live in complete obscurity. He was just able to pick and choose what he wanted to do with his time. He didn't want to do radio or TV interviews, and he'd sooner be skinned and staked out for fire ants than submit to interrogation from a panel of bloggers. But he'd sometimes go to schools, everything from first-graders to grad students. He wouldn't gloss over anything, and he'd answer every question they asked. He was always shocked at how surprised they were when he'd honestly answer, "I don't know."

He also took classes. The digital art class was a disaster, but he'd taken three classes on computers — intro to computers, internet research fundamentals, and even an entry-level programming course. He thought about taking a fourth, but he didn't want to turn into one of those people at his coffee shop, more concerned with computers than with talking to people.

Instead, he decided to see what he could learn on his own — and not by clicking his way into the black hole that was Wikipedia. He started at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where he learned that he liked drawing a lot more than looking at other people's work, especially when it was the sort of incomprehensible modern piece Tony would buy as an investment. The Museum of Natural History was more to Steve's taste, especially once he heard one of the tour guides mentioning that dinosaurs were _feathered_.

He bought himself a membership on the spot.

For his next three visits, he parked himself in the Hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs and experimented with drawing a feathered _Allosaurus_. Occasionally, he wandered to the Hall of Birds of the World so he could study feathers more closely. He thought about experimenting with color, but he decided to stick to grayscale for now. Feathered dinosaurs were radical enough, without making them all look like parrots or birds of paradise.

He wasn't entirely surprised when, late one afternoon, Bucky sat down next to him. The hall was crowded, and Bucky pressed against Steve, from knee to hip to shoulder. "You always used to draw."

"Do you remember that, or is it in a file somewhere?"

Bucky stopped scanning the crowd long enough to glance at Steve. "Both."

Steve nodded, thinking that was some progress, at least.

"You sent the intel to Black" — Bucky cut off with another sidelong glance — "to Natasha."

"Told you, I'm retired." Steve flipped back a couple of pages in the sketchbook, finding a picture that didn't look too silly. Well, no sillier than any other feathered dinosaur. "Think I could go into business?"

Bucky looked at the picture. He actually looked — not just a quick dip of the eyes before he went back to being Mr. Paranoia — and a warm feeling blossomed somewhere in Steve's chest. "You used to draw people. You used to draw me."

Steve's throat went dry. "I prefer to work from a model. Not just from memory," he said slowly, feeling the weight of the words.

Bucky lifted his gaze. Met Steve's eyes. "I remember that, too."

Steve licked his lips. "Bucky —"

"You should be careful. I haven't found them all." Bucky stood and melted into the crowd.

Steve jumped up to go after him. Two of his pencils slipped free, but he didn't care. He snatched up his satchel and moved through the crowd, trying not to step on any of the half-visible kids that darted frantically from one dinosaur display to the next.

And when he caught up with Bucky at the far exit, by the stairs, he knew that Bucky hadn't really been trying to escape, because the Winter Soldier had that same almost magical talent as Natasha — the one that let them vanish into a crowd between one blink and the next.

"Bucky, stop —" was as far as he got before a herd of those thundering little kids, hip-high but all the more dangerous for it, swarmed at him, around him, bumping into him. And he was Captain America, body honed to near-perfect balance and strength and agility, but even Dr. Erskine's super-soldier serum hadn't been designed to withstand fifty shrieking first-graders.

One hit his sketchpad, and he grabbed for it automatically, his attention almost wholly given over to Bucky's eyes, his face, the _reality_ that Bucky Barnes was here, even if he was more than halfway to being the Winter Soldier instead. And then two more kids ran into his hip, laughing and shoving at one another, and he remembered too late that they were at the top of one of the ridiculously long staircases. A fall wouldn't kill him, but it would hurt like all hell —

Bucky's metal hand clamped around Steve's arm, crushing muscle to bone. Blood vessels burst in a wash of heat that Steve could feel under his skin. A hard pull sent Steve crashing into Bucky's arms. He heard someone — a teacher, perhaps — yelling apologies, but Bucky's other arm locked around his waist, and he forgot how to breathe.

In one kiss, Bucky stole everything from Steve — his breath, his mind, his heart. With a gasp that would have been mortifying at any other time, he surrendered, and Bucky's tongue swept across his with an electric shock that went right down his spine.

The kids, little _monsters_ that they were, chorused out, "Eww!" and "Gross!" and Steve reminded himself that they were probably too young to care about two men kissing. They'd probably react this way to any couple.

But then he heard one yell, "Hey, cool! His hand's metal!" and Bucky let go so fast that Steve almost stumbled all over again. Steve caught one glimpse of Bucky as he twisted like a cat and navigated the herd of children. Then he disappeared into the dinosaur hall, and this time Steve knew better than to try and chase him down.


	4. Chapter 4

Much as Steve loved his Harley, it wasn't always practical for traveling in Manhattan, but sometimes he had no choice. He fought through traffic to bring it to the newly-renamed Avenger_s Tower. (The gap was apparently where Tony had installed an apostrophe that Pepper had ordered taken down, but the work crews hadn't gotten around to moving the 's' back.)

He spent two hours arguing with Tony about the specific definition of 'acceptable' when it came to modifications. Run-flat tires and a reinforced gas tank were fine; rocket launchers and flight-capable repulsors were absolutely off-limits. Steve had to concede on the switch that would generate a smoke cloud to blind a pursuer, but only because he put his foot down on the one that would produce an oil slick. Smoke would dissipate; Steve wasn't going to leave an oil slick that would kill innocent motorist hours after the fact.

After Tony dove into his lab, Steve took Pepper to lunch in apology for distracting Tony with another project. He let her pick the restaurant, then assured her that there was no need to apologize. He'd eaten things far worse than sushi back in the war, though the bits with tentacles were pushing even his cast iron stomach.

Halfway through a most-likely-inauthentic dessert of green tea ice cream, Steve spotted a familiar figure at the sushi bar. His back was turned, and the top part of his hair was pulled back into a sort of ponytail to keep it out of his eyes, but Steve knew him just from the set of his shoulders.

"Steve?"

He turned back and gave Pepper an automatic smile. "Sorry. Guess I'm distracted. It's been a long day."

"Mine's not even halfway done," Pepper said, sneaking a glance at her watch. "I have two more meetings today."

He tried to be better company, but he was relieved to finally escort her out to her waiting car fifteen minutes later. He refrained from waving as she left, because people didn't really do that anymore. And he wasn't surprised when he felt a now-familiar presence beside him.

"She's not safe," Bucky complained.

Steve shot Bucky a baffled look. "Pepper?"

Bucky nodded. "Extremis serum. She's a weapon."

Steve frowned, looking down the street, though Pepper's car was lost in traffic. Remembering his lessons about blending in with a crowd, he started walking. "What's Extremis?"

"I don't know." Bucky's exhale seemed frustrated. "I don't have the resources I once did."

"She seemed fine."

"Extremis is volatile. Unpredictable." Bucky gave Steve a stern glare. "You shouldn't be near her."

Steve grinned. "I thought your mission was to kill me," he teased.

The glare didn't waver.

"All right," Steve said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Anyone else I need to know about?"

"You shouldn't be near me, either."

"Hey, pal. You found me, remember?" Bucky frowned, and Steve instantly regretted the words. "Bucky —"

"It was a calculated risk. If necessary, I could contain the threat long enough for you to escape."

Steve took hold of Bucky's arm and crowded him out of the middle of the sidewalk and up against a nearby building. "I appreciate that," he said softly, sincerely. Bucky wasn't meeting his eyes; he was entirely engrossed in looking around, as if the New York City street was full of assassins gunning for Steve. "Bucky. Hey."

Bucky only looked at Steve long enough to complain, "This _isn't_ a necessary risk. Let me go."

Steve released Bucky's arm, though he didn't move back — and Bucky didn't run. "Why are you watching out for me, Buck?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah. I think you do."

Bucky's frown looked lost, stripping away the decades until Steve felt as though their roles had reversed — as if Bucky were the one who needed protection from the world. "Don't see her again, Steve," he said softly.

At that moment, Steve would have promised Bucky anything he asked for. "Okay."

"And" — Bucky hesitated — "watch your back. They're still out there."

Steve didn't ask who 'they' were, because it didn't matter. He had enemies. He'd always had enemies, from the first time he'd picked a fight with an older, bigger kid who was bullying him, because that was what he did. He stood up, where other people backed down.

"That's nothing new." Steve shrugged and took Bucky's hand — not to hold him in place, but to bridge the distance growing between them.

The touch snapped Bucky's gaze back to Steve's. "You make enemies simply by breathing."

Steve grinned. "And you protect me when I get in over my head. It's what you do, Bucky. Because the two of us together? There's nothing we can't face down."

Bucky's shoulders slumped — just a little, but enough that Steve noticed. He leaned in and touched his lips to Steve's cheek, then quietly whispered, "You're suicidal. You know that?"

"Nope. I'm _right_."

Bucky shook his head, and Steve hoped he wasn't imagining the hint of a fond smile on Bucky's lips. He felt the way Bucky pulled his hand free, slowly, maybe even reluctantly. Then, without another word, they turned and went in opposite directions, and Steve smiled the whole way home. He hoped Bucky felt the same.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve's lungs ached. His throat burned. His head was spinning, and his eyes felt like they'd been dipped in acid.

There were hands on him, fingers pinching against his jaw, holding his mouth open. Something hard was under the back of his neck, tipping his head back at an angle that was just this side of painful.

He tried to cough, but then a mouth covered his, and a sharp, hot exhale of air rushed into his mouth. He tried to raise his hands, but nothing was working right. His body felt like lead.

The hand on his jaw disappeared. He closed his mouth, and when he dragged his dry tongue across his lips, he tasted something bitter and chemical. He felt weight on his chest, and this time he managed to cough.

Whatever was supporting the back of his neck slid free. A gentle touch skittered over his face. When fingers pried his left eye open, he flinched but couldn't pull away. Bright light flared, and he tried to protest, but all that came out was a croak.

Warm, hard metal covered his mouth. "Quiet," a familiar voice breathed softly in his ear.

_Bucky_.

The world around him dipped and shifted. His bed. His mattress. His eyes were tearing, and every breath hurt. He was in his bedroom. The window was open, despite the late autumn chill, showing the night sky and the buildings across the alley.

What the hell had happened?

His washing machine was busted. He remembered wanting to go jogging tomorrow. He went to the laundromat, and he must have come home, but... he couldn't remember putting away his clothes or getting into bed.

He tried to sit up, but the whole world tilted on its side. His stomach flipped, and he stumbled out of bed, down the hallway, and into the bathroom in time to get rid of the dinner he could barely recall eating. Too late, he remembered Bucky had told him to be quiet, but there was no hope for it.

God, being sick _hurt_ in all sorts of new ways tonight. He flushed the toilet and dragged himself to his feet, feeling weaker than he had since he was thirteen and not yet familiar with the limits of his asthma. He rinsed his mouth, and when he spat, blood came up.

Then a shadow moved behind him, and he turned to fight, but everything went fuzzy again.

"You idiot," Bucky spat, catching hold of Steve's shoulders. He eased Steve down to the bathmat and sat him down next to the cool porcelain tub. "You almost died."

"What —" Even that one word hurt.

"S.T.R.I.K.E. Team Three — or what's left of them." Steve heard the water run. Then Bucky sat down beside him and held a plastic cup to his lips. "Drink."

Steve wanted to say something about the filtered water in the kitchen sink, but as soon as the water hit his tongue, he didn't care. It helped wash away the sour taste clinging to his mouth and the bitter residue of whatever toxin they'd used.

"Cyanide gas," Bucky said as if he knew what Steve had been wondering. "Tailored to our biochemistry."

"Our?" Steve croaked between swallows.

"They have blood and tissue samples from me. Our physiology is similar — almost identical, though the serum used on you was more refined."

"You —" Steve swallowed the last of the water and let his aching head fall back against the tub. "Not poisoned."

Bucky huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. "I had a gas mask. I was disarming the trap when they triggered it. You got only a small dose."

"Coulda warned," Steve complained.

"They couldn't know I was here. They sent in a kill team to finish the job." This time, it was definitely a laugh, edged and nasty and vicious. "Sorry about your downstairs carpet."

Under some other circumstance, Steve might have been worried at the bloodthirsty tone in Bucky's voice. Now, he could only lean against Bucky's shoulder and drag an arm around his waist. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and no force on the planet could make him let go. "'S okay."

"Can you swallow a capsule?"

"What?" Steve mumbled.

"Activated charcoal." Bucky shifted, though he didn't pull away from Steve. "I have one on me. I can go get more."

Steve wanted to ask for details, but all he could do was nod.

Instead of giving him the capsule, though, Bucky sighed and said, "You need fresh air." He shifted and wrapped his arms around Steve's body. Then he stood, pulling Steve up to his feet. He ignored Steve's groan and half-carried Steve out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom. It was cold, though the radiator was rattling in an effort to keep the temperature up.

When they reached the bed, Steve tried to hang onto Bucky, but gravity's pull was stronger than he was at the moment. He sank into the mattress and felt Bucky wrap him up in the blankets.

"I'll be right back with more water. Try and stay awake long enough to take this, all right?"

Steve lifted a hand but couldn't even fight the weight of the blanket. He wanted Bucky to come back. He wanted to know what had happened — and had Bucky said something about a kill team downstairs?

But it was no use. Even his enhanced physiology had its breaking point. And now, his body needed to sleep, so he could heal.


	6. Chapter 6

The Winter Soldier had integrated into civilian life almost seamlessly, with almost no interference from his enemies. Over seventy years, despite everything that had been done to him, he'd learned to lock away pieces of critical information. He knew things. Names. Locations. Account numbers. He had the wealth to disappear and create a new identity five times over without ever having to touch a weapon again. He had information that could cripple governments and destroy whole industries.

Twice, after HYDRA's exposure, they had tried to come for him: once to reclaim him, once to kill him. Both times, his enemies had failed, and they'd paid dearly for their failures. Now, they knew better. Mutually assured destruction. If they wanted to take him down, he had no illusions that he could stop their best efforts — but they would destroy themselves in the process.

He had five safehouses surrounding his asset's home in Brooklyn and more scattered throughout Manhattan, Westchester, and Long Island. He'd intentionally allowed two of them to be compromised. They were his traps, killing fields just waiting for him to lure in his victims. The rest were safe —

Or _should have been_.

He froze, metal fingertips a hairsbreadth from the doorknob. It should have pulsed with electromagnetic energy, but the circuit was disarmed.

Silently, out of view of the very slight gap under the door, he put down the groceries he'd picked up. The paper bag didn't even rustle.

He drew the sleek little Walther PPK that was almost comically small in his hand. When he'd changed out his weapons kit, he'd purchased the PPK on impulse. It was the favored weapon of a pop-culture assassin who was also something of a hero. He found the idea amusing. The gun was surprisingly accurate, though, and it was easy to conceal. He had no reason to regret the choice now.

In one smooth motion, he threw open the door and rolled into the apartment, staying low to avoid the kill-shot that didn't ring out. His trajectory took him behind the breakfast bar separating the tiny kitchen from the living room. He'd reinforced the breakfast bar with a two-inch plate of steel under the wood veneer, and he'd mounted a combat shotgun under the lip of the thinner, decorative steel countertop. He grabbed for it, but his fingers found empty air.

"I'd rather you not shoot me."

_Steve Rogers_.

He forced himself to get to his feet, though he knew he was exposing his head and torso to a shotgun blast that even his physiology couldn't repair. He couldn't bring himself to put down the Walther, but he kept it at his side, aimed safely at the ground. His downstairs neighbor played the TV at top volume and had a noisy, yappy little dog. No great loss if the Walther discharged.

It was unthinkable that Steve Rogers was here, in his safehouse, but... there he was, in the leather recliner by the window. He'd been sitting in the dark, but he had his Kindle in one hand. The screen was glowing faintly.

The shotgun was on the coffee table, breech open, with all eight shells in a neat line beside the barrel.

The Winter Soldier took a deep breath.

Months ago, the shift from the Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes had been impossible. Unthinkable. It was still difficult, like trying to breathe underwater, fighting against what his mind told him was right and what he _wanted_, because _want_ was something that was unfamiliar. Terrifying, even.

It was Bucky Barnes who exhaled — or as close to Bucky Barnes as he could get. There were gaps like the Grand Canyon in his memory, but he'd bridged a couple of them, thanks to Steve. Every ounce of the Winter Soldier's conditioning was focused on completing the mission and killing Steve Rogers. And every last shred of Bucky Barnes was focused on _protecting_ Steve at any cost.

"I could have killed you."

Steve shrugged. "I'd rather have dinner."

"You're suicidal."

"You left. I woke up to find Sam trying to figure out how to deal with three dead assassins in my front hallway."

Bucky nodded. He didn't know what to say. He'd wanted to stay, but he couldn't.

"How many more did you kill?" Steve asked softly.

The question was a relief. Bucky didn't have to bring it up himself. "The rest of the team." Finally, he was able to put down the Walther. As soon as it touched the steel countertop, he turned away and went to get the groceries and close the door. His apartment was the last one on the right, and the entry was set back in an alcove, but there were still nosy neighbors.

As he locked the door and re-armed the defenses, he realized he wasn't thinking of moving, even though this safehouse was compromised. Some part of his paranoid, assassin-trained brain was... okay with Steve knowing where he lived. At least, one of the locations.

Steve put down the Kindle and turned on the standing lamp by the recliner. He stood up and crossed to the kitchen as Bucky started taking groceries out of the bag. "Your fridge is empty, you know. Otherwise, I would've cooked."

A hint of the Winter Soldier tried to surface. He couldn't risk eating food that had been left unattended, even in the supposed safety of a secure location. He bought his meals from a different store every day, allowing a computer to choose a truly random pattern for his purchases. Less chance of being poisoned. Or, worse — being drugged and recaptured.

But he knew that was paranoia. The risk was minimal, especially for the effort. He answered with a shrug.

"You don't have to live like this, Bucky."

"I didn't find out they'd sabotaged your washing machine until the trap was already set," Bucky said as he folded the bag and tossed it in the recycle bin under the sink. "It was done in two stages. The machine —"

"Bucky."

"— was sabotaged weeks ago. I only found out after they'd set the —"

"Bucky!"

The sharp interruption cut through his words like a knife. He looked at Steve, and a little part of him still stared in amazement that he had to look _up_ at Steve — that Steve wasn't the skinny, scrawny little nothing he'd been growing up. It felt like just last week and a lifetime ago, all at once.

Steve ran a hand up Bucky's arm, and the touch nearly made him flinch, until he remembered that this was _Steve_. No one else could touch Bucky — not without losing a hand for their trouble.

"I mean it," Steve said when his hand reached Bucky's shoulder. "If you want to — I don't know, hook up an alarm to the door and windows or come jogging with me or... whatever you do, that's fine. But if you're going to watch me, I want you where I can watch you back."

The Winter Soldier operated alone. Even with a support team to provide backup and kit, the Winter Soldier was a solitary operative. He _needed_ no one. Only his orders.

But Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes had been a part of something more. He'd been Steve's protector and companion and best friend. He'd been part of the 107th. He'd been one of Steve's chosen, part of the Howling Commandos.

He'd never been alone.

And now, he didn't have to stay alone.

"Are you going to keep taking risks?"

Steve grinned. "I'm still me. Just taller."

"You start fights. I finish them."

"No. _We_ finish them together. And only the ones worth fighting."

Bucky nodded. He could live like this. He could let these memories surface, and maybe, over time, the Winter Soldier would fall down like silt in a river, always there but buried deep. Bucky was all that Steve needed. He was a soldier. A sniper. Steve's best friend.

So why did it feel like a loss?

"Deal, then?" Steve asked.

With effort, Bucky said, "Deal."

Steve's fingers tightened on Bucky's shoulder, and his other hand came up, cupping Bucky's metal shoulder. He felt the pressure of Steve holding him in place — not so tightly that he couldn't escape, but firmly. Intentionally.

Then Steve leaned in, ducking his head just a couple of inches, and the kiss — the kiss caught Bucky completely by surprise. And he had no idea how to react. Not as Bucky, not as the Winter Soldier, not as whatever mix of the two warred for dominance in his head.

Barely a heartbeat later, Steve backed off, hands falling to his side. "I'm — I'm sorry," he said, sounding lost.

Bucky's instincts pushed through his confusion. "No one's watching. You don't... have to..."

Steve cocked his head to the side, just a little bit, the way he'd do when he was wondering if he should ask what was going on or just start throwing punches. "_Have_ to?"

Everything in Bucky screamed to withdraw. To retreat. That he'd handled this all wrong. But if he ran now, he'd never find Steve waiting for him again. Steve had put _effort_ into finding him. Into bypassing his defenses. Into offering Bucky something like the old life they'd once shared.

"Tell me what you want."

Steve's eyes narrowed. The stubborn set to his jaw sparked more memories to life. "You first," he challenged.

Bucky should have been expecting it. Or maybe Bucky _was_ expecting it, but the Winter Soldier wasn't. He floundered for a few seconds before finally saying, "Us. Together." It was incoherent but true, or as close to truth as he could get.

Steve relaxed. His hand returned to Bucky's shoulder, warm and heavy and comforting. "Okay. You know that, Bucky. No matter what, you'll always be my best friend..."

Something about Steve's voice told Bucky that there was a blank space at the end of that sentence — a space the Winter Soldier wanted to ignore, because it was enough. It gave him a purpose. A mission. _Protect Steve_. Asking too much would lead to trouble. Maybe Steve wouldn't hurt him, but Steve would send him away.

But Bucky had faith the Winter Soldier could never have. Trust had been beaten and burned and cut out of the Winter Soldier, but not Bucky. Steve had charged blindly into Hell and rescued Bucky not once but twice.

"More." Bucky took a breath. "I want more."

Steve nodded, and his smile was full of the relief that Bucky didn't dare show. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said softly, moving his hands up to Bucky's face.

Bucky closed his eyes, feeling Steve's fingers in his hair. This time, the kiss was soft and inviting, coaxing Bucky into responding as much or as little as he wanted. After one last instant of hesitation, Bucky pushed aside the Winter Soldier's fear and wrapped his arms around Steve's body. He let Steve help him remember how to kiss because he wanted to, not to seduce a target or divert attention. And because he was too fragmented to remember the words, he put everything into that kiss instead, hoping that Steve would understand.

When every inch of him was tingling, the kiss ended. Their eyes met, and Bucky couldn't help but smile at the warmth in Steve's eyes. "Did you want to have dinner, or can I take you home? To _our_ home?"

The Winter Soldier's voice in Bucky's head was barely a whisper, a silent complaint of the vulnerabilities of Steve's house — doors and windows and the basement access. Looking into Steve's eyes, Bucky found it easy to ignore that voice, at least for now. Time enough for him to go to the hardware store tomorrow so he could start making some upgrades.

"Yeah, Steve," Bucky said softly. "Let's go home."


End file.
